


Stupid Enough to Try

by Squeaky



Series: Gifts [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), X Company (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Community: intoabar, Gen, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:25:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Tom meet in a bar. Steve's just got rejected by the Canadian Army, but it's Tom who needs hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stupid Enough to Try

**Author's Note:**

> [Steve Rogers (pictured here pre-serum)](http://static.tumblr.com/5e95294f949e7c89e7dc471c652f82b4/rfkbemw/R7xn8kgra/tumblr_static_eoyas5pptx4w4ososk8os0wow.png) is the best friend of James 'Bucky' Barnes. His adventures are chronicled in Marvel's _Captain America_ and _Winter Soldier_ comics, and in the _Captain America_ movies.
> 
> [Tom Cummings](http://www.thetvaddict.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/dustin.jpg) is an American member of a team of Canadian-trained resistance fighters in war-torn France. The adventures of 'X-Company' can be found [here](http://www.cbc.ca/xcompany/).
> 
> This fic is the prequel to [Resistance,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3585576) an AU where Tom belongs to the 10 percent of the world's population who have superhuman abilities, known as Gifts. While you won't need to read _Resistance_ to understand this fic, I hope you will. :)
> 
> This story belongs to a series that takes place mostly in the _Stargate: Atlantis_ universe. If you like this AU, you can find the whole series [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/14285) and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/14321).
> 
> As always, big hugs and cookies to [Taste_is_Sweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/works) for being the best beta, cheerleader and friend I could ever ask for. She is 12 kinds of awesome.
> 
> * * *

It was a cold December 20th. 

Steve Rogers sat in a bar in Brooklyn, only about a ten minute walk from the apartment he shared with his best friend, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. He’d been away from home for almost three days at this point and cold almost the entire time. 

But he still couldn’t make himself get up to walk that last half-mile home. 

He sighed and took another sip of his drink, trying not to make a face. He’d ordered a brandy mostly because he’d read somewhere that brandy was used to warm people up back in the day. But he hadn’t accounted for how harsh it tasted, although the way it burned was kind of pleasant. 

Or maybe he’d just drunk enough that his throat had gotten numb to the sensation. That thought made him chuckle humourlessly. Right this moment he kind of liked the idea of being numb. He downed the rest of the glass, letting it bang onto the bar. “Another.”

The bartender looked at him with a scowl. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“No,” Steve said, frowning. “If I thought I’d had enough, why’d I order another?”

The bartender shook his head. “Time for you to go home.”

That was a _terrible_ idea. “I can’t go home! Not yet.”

“Well, you can’t stay here,” the bartender leaned one beefy arm on the bar. “C’mon—pay up and then off you go.” 

“But—“ Steve started.

“Aw, come on Charlie,” a guy said as he slid onto the barstool beside Steve. “Can’t you see the guy wants to get blotto?”

Charlie and Steve both turned to look at Steve’s new companion. “This ain’t your concern, Tom.” 

“Just give him a drink,” The man—Tom—said with a charming smile. “His money’s good.”

The bartender smiled back, his hostile expression easing. “I’m sure it is, but he’s had plenty and he ain’t big. I think it’s time for him to go home.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Tom said, and if possible his expression grew even more charming. “So what about one more round so he can see what your legendary hospitality is all about, and then he’ll go?”

“Yeah,” the bartender agreed absently, as if the idea had just occurred to him. “Show him my legendary hospitality. I can do that.”

Tom smiled in obvious satisfaction. “And grab me one too. I’ll have what he’s having.” He turned to Steve, holding out his hand. “Tom Cummings.” he grinned. “Pleased to meet you.”

The guy was ridiculously good looking, with dark blue eyes that reminded Steve of Bucky, and incredibly even features. He looked like he should be staring in a picture show, not sitting in a grubby bar in the back end of Brooklyn. 

“Steve Rogers,” Steve said, shaking his hand. The bartender dropped a drink right in front of each of them. 

“On the house?” Tom raised an eyebrow in query at the bartender. 

“Sure, why not?” Charlie shrugged like giving away free booze was no big deal. He tapped the counter. “Enjoy.”

“To your health,” Tom said, and downed the glass in one shot. “Gah!” he spat. “That’ll teach me to not ask what you're having before I get it.”

Steve was staring at him in wonder. “How’d you do that?”

“Do what?” Tom wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Get him to go from wanting to kick me out to giving me a drink!” Steve gesticulated wildly. “That never happens to me!”

Tom looked surprised. “No one’s ever given you a drink before? Good looking guy like you?”

Steve blinked. “What?”

Tom waved him off. “You didn’t just hear that.” 

“Hear what?” Steve suddenly couldn’t remember what they’d just been talking about.

Tom smiled. “So,” he said after a moment. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

Steve looked down at his glass that he was cupping with both hands. “It’s hard to explain.”

Tom leaned his elbow on the bar and swivelled on his stool so that he was facing Steve, their knees almost touching. “Try me.” His eyes were dark and compelling, like he could look right down into your marrow. 

He looked like he’d care. Like he’d _understand,_ and suddenly Steve felt like if he kept his story in for _one more minute_ he’d come apart.

“I took the money I was meant to use to buy a new winter coat and I went to Toronto to sign up,” Steve blurted. “Only the Canadians wouldn’t take me, and now I’ve got to go back home with nothing and—“ He stopped talking and took a large swallow from his tumbler, pretending that it was the harsh burn of the alcohol turning his cheeks red and making his eyes water.

“That sounds tough.” Tom downed his glass as well and grimaced. “No idea what you see in this crap,” he said, but he signaled to the bartender for another round anyway. This time Charlie handed the drinks over without a word of complaint. Tom took another drink and then re-focussed on Steve. “So why’d you go to Canada anyway? I know its early days for us being in the fight, but they’ve been registering fellas for the draft since 1940. Why don't you just wait and volunteer here?”

Steve had started shaking his head even before Tom had finished. “That’s the whole problem. They won’t take me here. I _know_ they won’t.”

Tom made a face. “Why the hell not? You can’t be the shortest guy to ever sign up.”

“Probably not.” Steve gave a humourless laugh.

“So, what else is the problem?” Tom said. Steve shrugged. “C’mon,” Tom’s voice was soft. “You can tell me.”

“It’s not just my height,” Steve found himself explaining. Normally he didn’t just talk about his medical problems like this, but something about Tom made him want to open up. “I have asthma, and high blood pressure and a heart murmur. And—and some other stuff.” He took another drink. “None of which makes me army material, I guess.”

“That’s rough,” Tom said. “That’s a real shame.” He took a swig from his glass.

Steve nodded. “I just want to help, y’know?” He could hear the soft slur in his voice, knew the fuzziness to the edges of his vision had less to do with his poor eyesight than with the amount he’d drunk, and it was probably just about the right time to actually be heading home. But he was warm and comfortable right now, and Tom was a great listener. He couldn’t imagine leaving. 

“Help kill Nazis, you mean?” Tom raised his eyebrows. “You want to kill Nazis?”

“No!” Steve said immediately. He hadn’t really thought _why_ he wanted to go to the front so bad, but he knew it wasn’t so he could kill. “My dad fought in the Great War. The 107th,” Steve said. “I’d like to do my part.”

“Collect scrap iron.” Tom grinned. “Grow a—what they call them in England?—Victory Garden.”

Steve frowned at him. “I’m not a child. Or a dame.”

“Never said you were, Rogers.” Tom gestured at him with his glass before he brought it to his mouth. “But why you want to go overseas so badly if it’s not about killing Krauts?”

“I don’t wanna kill anyone,” Steve said simply. “I just don’t like bullies.” It was the first real reason that came to his mind, and as soon as he’d said it he knew it was true. “I got beaten up as a kid—a lot, actually.” He shrugged. “I guess I never forgot how it felt.” 

“Huh,” Tom said. His expression was a strange mix of sympathy and admiration. “But even with a speech like that you got nothing in Canada?”

“No,” Steve sighed. “Bucky told me they wouldn’t be hard up enough to take someone like me back in ’39. Guess he was right.”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Tom quirked his eyebrow. 

“My roommate,” Steve couldn’t help grinning. “My best friend, actually. Well, more like a brother. I’ve known him my whole life.”

“And yet, he’s the one you can’t go home to?” Tom eyed Steve over the top of his drink. “I remember you saying something like that.”

“I, uh, didn’t exactly tell him what I was planning,” Steve said, focussing on his glass again.

“Sounds like he might not be too pleased if you’re without a coat, either.” Tom’s smile was sympathetic. “If he knows about your ailments and everything.” 

Steve nodded. “He sure does.”

They sat in silence for a while. Steve felt the pleasant fuzziness in his head start to shift to the droopy melancholy he’d often get when he drank. Bucky called him a ‘maudlin drunk' for a reason. He grimaced. Thinking about Bucky, and how angry Bucky was going to be certainly wasn’t helping his mood any. He turned to his companion. “So,” he said, “how about you. You eager to join the fight?”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “I’d do anything to join.” His laugh was grim. “Tried to register last year. But they wouldn’t take me.”

Steve blinked. Tom was tall and lean and obviously muscular if the definition in his forearms showing from his rolled-up sleeves was any indication. “Do you have asthma too, or something? Because you look like you’d be the perfect—“

“They didn’t want me,” Tom said, all humour gone from his tone. 

“Why not?” Steve asked quietly. “Is it something you could fix? Because—“

“You Gifted?” Tom asked suddenly, his blue eyes held Steve's with an intensity that Steve couldn’t look away from even if he wanted to. “Tell me, Steve. You got a Gift along with all those problems?”

Steve found himself shaking his head before he even realized he was going to answer. It wasn’t really considered polite to ask other people about their Gifts. Normally an abrupt question like that one would’ve ended up with Steve and the fella duking it out in a back ally. But clearly this wasn’t a normal conversation. “No,” Steve said. “No Gift.”

“Yeah, well. Must be nice.” Tom pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his inner jacket pocket. “Smoke?”

Steve shook his head again. “Asthma.”

“Right,” Tom sighed. He slipped the pack away again before Steve could protest that he’d be okay.

But something Tom had said was buzzing in Steve’s mind. “What do you mean, ‘it must be nice?’”

“What?” 

“You said ‘it must be nice,’ before. When I said I wasn’t Gifted,” Steve said. “What did you mean by that?”

Tom smirked. “You really want to know that, Rogers? You want to know the answer to that one?”

Steve blinked. He’d been curious when he’d asked, but now it felt like he was burning for the answer. “Yeah. Yeah, I really do want to know.” 

“I thought you might say that,” Tom said. He swivelled on the stool again until he was facing Steve head-on. “I’m a Charmer,” he said. “Worst kind of Gift. No one trusts you. Hell, no one fucking _likes_ you, once they find out. Everyone’s so sure you’re going to make them do or say something they don’t want to.” He shook his head. “I’m ‘too dangerous’ to have in the military.” Tom made air quotes around the words. “Said if I was in a unit I’d be ‘bad for morale.’ Wouldn’t even let me register for the draft.” He sighed and his smirk was back, but this time it was sardonic and sad. “So, what’d you think of me now, Rogers? Still think this is something I could _fix_?”

Steve felt immediately far too sober. He thought back over their free drinks, their brief conversation where Steve had told him about his medical problems. He jumped off his stool, his fists clenched. “Have you been charming _me?_ ”

“Of course,” Tom said, waving off the question. “It’s what I do.” But his eyes were downcast to his empty glass, his shoulders sagging.

Steve waited for the white-hot rage to boil up, for his sense of injustice to kick in. He’d been forced to say something that he’d never have said otherwise. Surely that was worth a few punches. 

But the anger never came. Tom looked defeated; broken. Like he’d known Steve was going to reject him before he’d even sat down, so there was no reason for him _not_ to use his Gift. Like Steve had known the Canadian Army were going to reject _him_ before he’d even crossed the border, and yet he’d spent the money anyway. They’d both been stupid enough to try just one more time. Maybe because they’d both been hoping the same thing – this time it’d be different.

Steve sat back down on his stool. “You shouldn’t just Charm people,” he said. “It’s not nice.”

Tom looked up at him through his eyelashes. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you Charmed me without asking my permission,” Steve snapped. “You should’ve asked.”

Tom scowled. “Like you’d’ve said yes.”

Steve shrugged. “I might’ve.” 

Tom arched his eyebrows. “You _might’ve?_ ” he repeated.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Okay, I probably wouldn’t’ve,” he said. “But it would’ve been more honest.”

“And you would’ve found another place to sit,” Tom said with bitter certainty. “No one likes Charmers. And _that’s_ being honest.”

Steve raised one shoulder. “No one likes being manipulated. But I’d bet a lot of people’d like you, if you didn’t hit them with your Gift first.”

“I tried that when I went to sign up for the draft. I just told them about my Gift instead of using it. And look how well that went.” Tom sighed. “It’s who I am. My brains—“ he chuckled self-depreciatingly, “—my looks. All of that disappears as soon as people hear I’m a Charmer. Either I can’t be who I am so I can be acceptable, or I’m myself and I’m hated.” He shrugged. “Not much of a choice.”

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again. Tom wasn’t wrong. He thought of Bucky, and his Gift of Self-Healing. He’d heal from a bruise in hours where it’d take Steve days. It was a useful Gift that couldn’t hurt anyone, and yet Bucky was reluctant to talk about it. His whole family acted like it was one big, shameful secret. He’d known Bucky for three years before Bucky’d even mentioned it, and Steve’d already seen it work, practically before his eyes. He looked over at Tom again, taking in the loneliness that seemed to cover him like a shroud. Steve cleared his throat.

“The Canadians asked me that,” he said. “Asked if I was Gifted.”

“Makes sense,” Tom said, without looking up. “We ask that, too.”

“I know,” Steve said. “But this was a bit different. They asked me if I had any mental Gifts. Like Telepathy, or Mechanist. Or Charm.”

Tom’s head snapped up. “Bullshit.”

“No,” Steve said vehemently. “I asked them why they wanted to know, and the officer got really tight-lipped. But he did say that they had something going on that they needed Gifted people for. And if I was Gifted my physical ailments wouldn’t matter. He was serious.”

“No one wants Charmers,” Tom said, but he looked like he wanted Steve to be right. 

“His name was Sinclair,” Steve said. “He was a Colonel. He said they’d take Americans. No questions asked.”

“You’re serious,” Tom said. “You’re not just handing me a line to get me back for Charming you before?”

Steve scowled. “No.”

“Wow,” Tom breathed. He looked at Steve again. “Are you lying to me? Because you’ll tell me if your lying. Right now.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to Charm me again?”

“Damn,” Tom muttered. His smile was apologetic. “I just wanted to be sure, you know?”

Steve’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not lying. But I will pop you one in the kisser if you try that again.”

“I won’t,” Tom promised. “It won’t work on you anyway. Charm only works if you trust the person.”

“Oh the irony,” Steve said dryly.

“Hey,” Tom said seriously. “Thanks. Thanks for telling me about the Canadians. And for not…well for not running away when I told you.”

“I wasn’t gonna run,” Steve said. “I was gonna hit you.” But then he smiled. “And you’re welcome.”

“I think I’m going to scram.” Tom stood. “I’ve got a train to Toronto to catch tomorrow morning.” His smile was very wide. 

“I might just have one more,” Steve said. “I’m still not sure I’m ready to go back.”

“Go home,” Tom said, clapping his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I’m sure your Bucky misses you.”

Steve looked at him. 

Tom raised his hands. “No Charm, remember? Just a suggestion.” 

“What if he’s mad?” Steve said. 

Tom pursed his lips. “So he’s mad. If he’s as good a friend as you say he is, he’ll understand why you felt you needed to go. He’ll get over it.”

Steve mulled that over. “You’re probably right.”

Tom grinned. “Sure I am.”

“So I think I will probably go home,” Steve sighed. He looked through the front windows. Snow was falling, the flakes flashing soft and golden in the light of the streetlamps. He shivered just looking at it, thinking of the rest of the winter with his threadbare coat. “But Bucky’s still gonna kill me.”

“Here,” Tom shoved a handful of bills into Steve’s hands. “Think of it as a thank you for our conversation,” he said. “Use it to get a taxi home. And buy yourself a coat.”

Steve’s mouth dropped open. “This is fifteen dollars!” He exclaimed. “I’m not taking this.” He thrust the money back at Tom. “Your Charm doesn’t work on me anymore, remember?”

“I’m not trying to Charm you,” Tom said quietly. “I just don’t like the idea of my—my friend walking home alone in the dark. Okay?”

Steve smiled in resignation. “Okay,” he sighed. He dropped three dollars on the bar and put the rest in his pocket. He knew he was overpaying the bartender, but he figured that Tom might’ve been mooching free drinks for a while. “But I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

“If I get accepted by the Canadians, I’ll _still_ owe you one,” Tom said. He stuck out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Steve Rogers.”

“Likewise, Tom Cummings.” They shook and headed towards the door together.

“Wish me luck,” Tom said as they stepped outside into the cold night air. 

“Luck,” Steve said obediently, but under his own command.

“I’d wish you luck,” Tom said. “But something tells me you’re not going to need it.” 

“What, you’re a Precog now, too?” Steve said.

“Sure.” Tom winked at him. “But you got moxie, Rogers. I bet you’ll make it to the front. If that’s what you want.”  


“It is,” Steve said with certainty. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get there.”

Tom eyed him appraisingly. “I’m sure you will.” 

Steve smiled. “I hope.”

“Maybe I’ll even see you over there. If we both get that lucky,” Tom said as he waved a taxi down for Steve. 

“That’d be good,” Steve grinned at the idea. 

He entered the taxi through the door Tom was holding open for him. Tom and the taxi driver exchanged a few pleasantries before Tom’s eyes intensified in the way that Steve had already guessed meant he was using his Gift. “Take this gentleman straight to his address. No shenanigans.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. He meant more than for the ride.

“Thanks,” Tom echoed. “You take care.” He held Steve’s gaze for a moment, then shut the door and banged on the taxi’s roof. Then he was gone.

“Good luck, Tom Cummings,” Steve whispered into the dark. 

He thought about what Tom had said, about him not needing luck to get to the front. He hoped the other man was right. No matter what he’d need to do. No matter how much Bucky would hate it.

He sat back and closed his eyes, letting the taxi take him home.

**END**


End file.
